


A Private Concert

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Victorian, Avarice, Cunnilingus, Dark-ish, F/M, Gift Giving, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Piano, Piano Sex, Seduction, Sugar Daddy, improper behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 16:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15562206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: "You have a mouth made for kisses," he says, brushing a thumb across her lips, bringing a fresh blush to her cheeks at his unseemly words. "And your skin is so very soft," he continues, hands gliding down her shoulders, skipping across the low sleeves of her dress to touch her arms, her wrists, with such delicate attention that she gasps anew."I have not thanked you for the new dress," she says, her voice thinning under the glitter of his eyes that regard her with such intensity she fears she may swoon."No thanks are needed, my dear, for it is only right that you be clothed in a manner that befits your station, I would be utterly remiss in my duties as guardian were I not to do so. Besides, you look the very picture," he says, a hand smoothing down her side above her corset which creaks with the pressure of her belaboured breaths.





	A Private Concert

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa has been aged up to twenty in this AU.
> 
> if you want visuals for this fic, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/176624869652/you-have-a-mouth-made-for-kisses-he-says)

 

 

“Play something for me,” Lord Baelish says, having entered the music room without her knowing, his footsteps ever soft.

"Of course, my lord,” Sansa says from her seat before the piano, glancing at her guardian over her shoulder, noting the usual fine cut of his morning coat and the kind smile he is quick to bestow upon her.

She has played the piano since she was very young and Lord Baelish is hardly an unfriendly audience, after all the kindnesses he has shown her, and the pleasant time they have spent in one another’s company, and so she does not know why her stomach is strangely aflutter as she sets her hands to the keys of the piano he had bought for her not long after she was taken into the care of Aunt Lysa and her husband.

She decides to play something slow and sad, hoping to calm her heart, but as Lord Baelish moves closer, as she senses him behind her, his breath glancing across her bared shoulders as she reads the score propped open on the piano, she feels her own breath hitch and then, when he places a warm hand on the space between her neck and shoulder, she gasps and her fingers falter on the keys before she rights herself again.

"Such lovely playing, my dear," he says, without removing his hand, whose touch is now spreading its warmth through the rest of her like a hot coal.

His thumb strokes the nape of her neck and her breath feels tight against her corset which her maid was forced to pull tighter than ever this morning so she would fit inside the new dress her benefactor had gifted her, a dark green velvet that looks darling against her skin and hair. _Like a very doll, miss_ , her maid had said as Sansa gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She wears part of her hair loose in ringlets today, even though at twenty she is a little too old for such a style, but since she had no other obligations this afternoon, no possible other company besides her guardian, with her aunt now several months into her sojourn in Switzerland, she did not feel the need to suffer half an hour’s more of her toilette for her hair to be pinned.

Now, as she plays, she feels Lord Baelish brush those very curls over one shoulder, leaving the other bare and then, to her amazement, she feels the featherlight press of a kiss to her neck and her fingers pause, her bosom heaves.

"Do you require assistance to turn the page?" he asks, his lips brushing against her skin and making her toes curl up in her boots.

"No, my lord," she stutters and starts to play again as she feels his hands slide around her waist.

It is not proper for him to be touching her thus, she knows, and yet hadn’t he gifted her many fatherly kisses to her cheek and forehead before, hadn’t he often placed a hand on her waist to guide her into a room?

He has been so very kind to her, Lord Baelish, given her a home here with him, and her aunt, and purchased her any number of splendid gifts, far more than her parents ever gave her, and has asked very little from her in turn, except her company on glorious trips to the theatre and museums, to play cards with him after dinner and to recite poetry from the tomes he places in her arms. He is a romantic, her guardian, that is what the maids say and what she believes too, with his love of music and song, his library full of poetry and art in the fashion of the Greeks, and, having a tender heart herself, she feels that she has blossomed under his care.

"Such beautiful music, I fear it may bring a tear to my eye," he sighs and his hands squeeze her waist and she bites her lip lest she make an odd sound in response, a shiver glancing through her. "You have a rare talent, my dear."

"You are too kind," she replies, in a voice that attests to her breathlessness.

His kisses have travelled down her neck to her shoulders now, his hands are tight on her waist and she is awash in an indolence of pleasure, even as a part of her knows that what she is feeling, what he is doing, is entirely unseemly.

"Tell me, Sansa, have you ever been kissed?" he asks in an insouciant voice that belies the improper nature of such a question.

"Upon my cheek, yes," she replies as she loses the rhythm of her playing, feeling herself sway back towards him.

He hums. "Of course. And have you been kissed anywhere else upon your person?"

Her breath hitches again, she feels the nape of her neck prickle as he sets his lips to it, the brush of his moustache making her want to squirm.

"My neck, my lord," she gasps.

"A pleasant place for a kiss to be pressed, yes," he murmurs, and she feels the tip of his nose stroke up her neck as his lips move to press just behind her ear, his hand brushing her curls away. "And?" he prompts.

"My—my ear," she stutters, as his lips move to her earlobe, as one of his hands now slides upwards from her waist to play his fingers across her décolletage.

"And should you like to be kissed anywhere else, my dear?" he asks.

"I—" she begins insensibly, fingers that have barely been playing upon their keys now stopping altogether as he tilts her face by the chin to kiss her cheek, her jaw, as she feels near to swooning, and then his lips hover just at the corner of her own lips, and she lifts her face but he glances back. "My lips," she whispers shamelessly and he kisses her upon those lips and she trembles wantonly as he coaxes her to kiss him back, pressing his lips now to her bottom lip and now to her top, and then, to her astonishment, opening his mouth to let the tip of his tongue stroke against her as she gasps, whereupon his tongue enters her mouth in the most _sordid_ of kisses as she feels her hands rise feebly to his shoulders and clutch at the fine fabric of his morning coat.

"My lord—" she says, having turned in her seat to face him, "we should not—"

"Do you not like my kisses, Sansa?" he says, brushing his lips across her jaw, holding a hand firmly to her nape as if he fears she will flee, when truthfully the notion of parting from his touch, of leaving this room, is unfathomable to her.

"Oh, I do, but surely you must know that—"

He kisses her on the mouth again and she cannot help but let out a wanton groan, her body so warm it is as if she stands underneath a full blazing sun, her stomach fluttering, her legs twitching strangely.

"You have a mouth made for kisses," he says, brushing a thumb across her lips, bringing a fresh blush to her cheeks at his unseemly words. "And your skin is so very soft," he continues, hands gliding down her shoulders, skipping across the low sleeves of her dress to touch her arms, her wrists, with such delicate attention that she gasps anew.

"I have not thanked you for the new dress," she says, her voice thinning under the glitter of his eyes that regard her with such intensity she fears she may swoon.

"No thanks are needed, my dear, for it is only right that you be clothed in a manner that befits your station, I would be utterly remiss in my duties as guardian were I not to do so. Besides, you look the very picture," he says, a hand smoothing down her side above her corset which creaks with the pressure of her belaboured breaths.

She cannot look away from his mouth, the sheen upon it, the curling smile, and she finds herself licking her own lips in some parody of his previous motion.

"You have been such a joy to care for, Sansa," he says, kneeling now before her, taking her hands in his, "and if I gave you all the gifts I wished to, I fear that the towers of boxes and cases might be a danger to you in your rooms." He smiles and she smiles back, thinking covetously of such an abundance of gifts. He has already been so very generous, it would be greedy of her to wish for more—

"But I do have one more gift for you now," he says, "a special gift for my special girl," he adds as she feels herself preen and blush under his attention, her heart feeling glad at his generosity and care for her. "Have you ever heard of a Lord's Kiss, my dear?"

She frowns delicately, for a kiss does not sound like a gift, though it is true she has enjoyed his kisses today immensely. "I have not, my lord."

"A Lord's Kiss is a very special and rare kiss bestowed by a lord to his lady-fair," he says, his voice a bewitching whisper, his eyes glinting as his hands now drop to the hem of her _dress_ —

"My lord—" she says breathlessly.

"There is no need to be alarmed, my dear," he says, as his hands slide around her ankles, the touch shockingly pleasurable and entirely improper. And yet she does not tell him to halt, she does not make some loud sound that might bring a servant to the room, she does not push him away, "your honour of course shall stay intact."

Her _honour_ , she had not even thought of her honour, she thinks, as his hands bury themselves underneath her petticoats and slide further up her legs. What kind of a kiss should he mean?

"Lord Baelish—" she begins, as his hands now touch her knees, and her belly trembles.

He sits up and kisses her then, swallowing her panting breaths. "You are being so good for me, sweetheart, so very good," he says and she, a girl who has only ever wished to please and be told that she is pleasing, lets out a cry, as his hands find the tops of her stockings and touch the heated flesh of her thighs, his fingers stroking and kneading, inflaming her ardor to dizzying new heights.

He shifts the seat upon which she tightly clutches, so that she might now rest her back against the piano, whose keys produce a discordant sound as he lifts her skirts so that he might move _under them_ , so that his head and shoulders are now hidden by the weight of green velvet as she gasps and raises her eyes heavenward, her legs pushed apart by the shape of him there, his hands now teasing at her hips and now parting the seam of her drawers so he might touch her _there_ where none has ever touched—

"My lord—" she says, and she hears him murmur some response before his fingers begin _stroking_ and swirling in the folds of her womanly flesh, bringing her to such bliss she fears she shall cry out and bring the servants running.

She feels a great wash of pleasure, a fizzing, a wave of thrilling ecstasy as something inside of her _clenches_ , as her thighs spasm and his hand steadies her in her seat lest she fall to the floor and writhe upon the carpet like some kind of wanton.

And then, as he had promised, he _kisses_ her, _there_ , between her thighs, there in the lewd slick of her, his tongue moving _obscenely_ , mimicking with his lips the kisses he bestowed upon her own lips barely ten minutes ago—

She cries out, she whines and pants and wriggles, clutching the mound of his head beneath her skirts, feeling the perspiration pool underneath her corset that strains at the seams as she tries to catch her breath, as his mouth moves upon her as if he is starved with hunger for her, as if he should _die_ were he not to taste her, and then she reaches a second peak and her shoulders slide against the piano, forcing more rude notes from its keys, and he emerges from her skirts, hair tufted, cheeks reddened by the slide of the fabric of her drawers, lips _wet_.

Her words have abandoned her, the echo of her pleasure is still warm in her belly and her thighs, in her cheeks which must surely be blazing with blushes.

"And how did you like your gift, dearest Sansa," he says, his voice lascivious, his hands holding her by each stockinged calf.

"I liked it very much, my lord," she says breathlessly.

"Good," he says with a wicked grin, "I am glad. For I have wished to give you such a token of my affections for quite some time now."

He stands up and takes her by the hands so that she might stand up too but she is still aflutter and cannot find her footing, so he brings one arm about her waist and the other her shoulders, enfolding her in his warm embrace as she throws her arms about his neck and trembles.

"There now, darling," he says, and pets at the nape of her neck. "Calm yourself, and I will hold you until you find your breath again."

She is scarcely to find her breath if he keeps petting her, she thinks somewhat-hysterically, as he kisses her forehead and then her cheek, stroking her curls back from her face.

"I fear that I appear in quite some disarray," she says, as cups her face.

"Quite the contrary," he says, "you look like an angel, my dear, perfectly composed, if a little flushed," he smiles and pinches her cheek softly, "but it is a wholesome glow you bear, as if you have simply had a salubrious stroll through the park. And myself, how do I fare after such a kiss?" he asks, as he smooths his hair down.

"You appear to be the picture of health, my lord," she says, sliding into his own teasing tone.

"Good," he smiles and chucks her under the chin. "Now, I fear that I am late for many a meeting in town," he says regretfully. "And I must sadly pull myself away from your delightful company, and indeed before you have finished your concerto," he says, clucking his tongue, and stepping back to right his morning coat.

She smooths out her own dress, shifting on her feet and trying to ignore the damp between her thighs that she fears might stain her skirts, as he watches her half-lidded, as if he knows her very thoughts.

"You shall have to perform for me another time," he says, "mayhaps tomorrow you might play another piece for me and I might present you with another token, another gift."

"I should like that very much, my lord," she says, biting her lip as he smiles wickedly and she feels a hungry pang in her stomach and further below.

"Wonderful, my dear," he says, lifting her hand to kiss it, his moustache tickling the skin so that she feels herself shiver. He bows and strides to the door, pausing on its threshold to look back over his shoulder. "You shall have a new dress for every concert of course," he says, eyes gliding down her form, "and new jewels too, I think. I shall make a visit to my jeweller this afternoon. Until dinner," he says, bowing his head.

"My lord," she says and curtseys, trying not to smile too widely at the thought of all the many gifts he is to give her, and when he has left the room, she flees to the couch by the window and slumps down upon it, fanning her face with her hand and gasping at her own daring and at the memory of his kisses, the thought of the many kisses to come.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you enjoyed this fic, I'd love to know what people think! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/176624869652/you-have-a-mouth-made-for-kisses-he-says)


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